Poul Anderson - Star of the Sea

“Did Classicus instigate it?” he asked.

“I can’t be sure,” Floris said around a sob. He didn’t blame her. He would have hated witnessing the massacre himself, and he was case-hardened. “He is among the Germans, yes, but the trees interfere with seeing and the wind with sound pickup. Does he speak their language?”

“Little if any, as far as I know, but some among them know Latin—”

“Your soul is elsewhere, Everard,” Burhmund said.

“I do feel a . . . foreboding,” the Patrolman replied. Might as well give him a hint I’ve got a bit of foresight, a touch of elflore. It could come in handy later.

Burhmund’s visage was stark. “I too, though for reasons more earthly. Best I gather my trusty men. Hold aside, Everard. Your sword is keen, yes, but you’ve not marched with the legions, and I think I’ll have need of tight discipline.” The last word was Latin.

The truth reached them, borne by a horseman a-gallop out of the woods. In a suddenly rising, roaring mob, the Germans had fallen on the prisoners. The few Gallic guards scrambled out of the way. The Germans were butchering every unarmed man and smashing the treasures. They would give the gods their hecatomb.

Everard suspected Classicus had egged them on to it. That would have been simple. Classicus wanted them committed beyond the possibility of making a separate peace. No doubt Burhmund shared the suspicion, as furious as the Batavian was. But what could he do about it?

He could not even stop his barbarians when they swarmed kill-crazy from the woods into Old Camp. Fire leaped up behind the walls. Shrieks mingled with the stench of burning human flesh.

Burhmund wasn’t actually horrified. This kind of thing was common in his world. What maddened him was the disobedience and the underhandedness that had brought it on.

“I will hale them to a weaponmoot,” he growled. “I will flay them with shame. That they may know I mean it, in their sight I will cut this hair of mine, Roman-short again, and wash the dye from it. As for plighting faith to Classicus and his empire—if he mislikes what I’ll have to say about that, let him dare take arms against me.”

“I think best I go,” Everard said. “I would only be underfoot here. Maybe we will meet anew.”

When, in the unhappy days ahead of you?

Wind rushed bitter, driving low clouds like smoke before it. Spatters of rain flew slantwise past unrestful boughs. Hoofs splashed puddles in the trail where horses plodded, heads drooping. Saeferth rode first; Hnaef came after, leading the laden relief animals. Between them, hunched in a sodden cloak, was the Roman. With hand-signs and the like when they stopped to eat or rest, the Batavi had learned his name was Lupercus.

From around a bend appeared a group of five, surely Bructeri, for the wayfarers had reached that land. They were, however, still in the belt where nobody lived, which German tribes liked to keep around themselves. He at the forefront was gaunt as a ferret, black as a crow save where the years had strewn whiteness over hair and beard. His right hand gripped a spear. “Hold!” he cried.

Saeferth reined in. “We come peacefully, sent by our lord Burhmund to the wise-woman Wael-Edh,” he said.

The dark man nodded. “We have had word of this.”

“That can be but a short while ago, for we left well-nigh on the heels of his messenger, though we must needs fare slower.”

“Aye. Now the time has come to act swiftly. I am Heidhin, Viduhada’s son, Wael-Edh’s foremost man.”

“I recall you,” Hnaef said, “from when my lord visited her last year. What would you of us?”

“The man you bring,” Heidhin told them. “He is the one Burhmund gives to Wael-Edh, is he not?”

“Yes.”

Aware that they talked about him, Lupercus tightened. His glance went from face to face while the guttural words rolled around his head.

“She in her turn gives him to the gods,” Heidhin said. “I have watched for you that I may do the deed.”

“What, not in your halidom, with a feast to follow?” wondered Saeferth.

“I told you there is need of haste. Several great men among us would liefer keep him in hopes of ransom, did they know. We cannot afford to aggrieve them. Yet the gods are wrathful. Look about you.” Heidhin swept his spear athwart the drenched and moaning forest.

Saeferth and Hnaef could not well gainsay him. The Bructeri outnumbered them. Besides, everybody knew how he had been with the wise-woman since leaving their faraway birthland. “Witness, all, that we fully meant to seek her, and are taking your word that this is her will instead,” Saeferth spoke.

Hnaef scowled. “Let’s get it finished,” he said.

They dismounted, as did the others, and beckoned Lupercus to do likewise. He required help, though that was because he remained weak and shaky from starvation. When they bound his wrists behind him and Heidhin uncoiled a rope with a noose, his eyes widened and he drew one sharp breath. Thereafter he steadied himself on his feet and murmured what might be something to his own gods.

Heidhin looked heavenward. “Father Woen, warrior Tiw, Donar of the thunder, hear me,” he said slowly and weightily. “Know this offering for what it is, the gift of Nerha to you. Know she was never your foe nor any thief of your honor. If men have lately given you less than erstwhile, what she received was ever on behalf of all the gods. Stand again at her side, mighty ones, and bestow on us victory!”

Saefeth and Hnaef grasped Lupercus’s arms. Heidhin trod forward to him. With the spearpoint he marked on the Roman’s brow the sign of the hammer; on his breast, slashing the tunic, he cut a fylfot. Blood welled shoutingly red into the gray air. Lupercus kept silent. They led him to the ash tree Heidhin chose, tossed the rope over a branch, laid the noose about his neck. “Oh, Julia,” he called softly. Two of Heidhin’s men hauled him aloft while the rest beat sword on shield and howled. He kicked the wind until Heidhin drove the spear into him, up the belly to the heart.

When the rest had been done that should be, Heidhin said to Saeferth and Hanaef, “Come along. I will guest you at my hall ere you go back to lord Burhmund.”

“What shall we tell him about this?” asked Hnaef.

“The truth,” answered Heidhin. “Tell the whole host. At last the gods have gotten their rightful share as of old. Now they ought wholeheartedly to fight for us.”

The Germans rode off. A raven flapped around the dead man, perched on his shoulder, pecked and swallowed. Another came, and another, and another. Their cries rang hoarse through the wind that rocked him to and fro.

Everard allowed Floris two days at home for rest and recovery. She was no weak sister, but she was a civilized person with a conscience, who had been witness to horror. Luckily, she hadn’t known any of the victims; there should be no survivor’s guilt to overcome. “Ask for psychotech help if the nightmares won’t go away,” he suggested. “Of course, we also have to think things over, in the light of what we’ve now directly observed, and figure out a program for ourselves.”

Toughened though he was, he too welcomed a respite in which to come to terms with the sights and sounds and smells of Old Camp. He walked the Amsterdam streets for hours on end, bathing in the decency of the twentieth-century Netherlands. Otherwise he was at the Patrol office retrieving data files—history, anthropology, political and physical geography, everything available—and having the most essential-looking items imprinted.

His advance preparation had been on the cursory side. Not that he now acquired an encyclopedic knowledge. It wasn’t available. Germanic prehistory drew few investigators; they scattered across a vast stretch of miles and centuries. So much else appeared to be so much more interesting and important. Hard information was sparse. Nobody besides him and Floris had personally researched Civilis. The rebellion hadn’t seemed worth the considerable hazards of fieldwork, when nothing came of it but a change for the better in Roman treatment of a few obscure people.